His bloody, calloused hand grips my slender, metallic frame. I catch only a passing glance at your pale, limp body as he shoves me between the driver’s seat and center console. Without me, the ‘accident’ would look suspicious.

“You know how Lucy was,” he would say to anyone who asked questions, “always on her phone.”

I must take a photo of him before he leaves. With my camera lens eye, I watch as he heaves a stone slab from the waist-high grass, dropping it next to the gas pedal. Daniel’s brown hair, slick from falling rain, sticks to his bruised forehead. The rock, like your bare legs, is coated in a slimy layer of muck. He pauses, looks at you. His eyes turn away from yours, the same way he did that night you confronted him about a text you saw on his phone. He covers his mouth with bloody, rain-dripped knuckles. 

I turn my camera on, flash off, because he would see. I snap a photo of him, bloodshot eyes and unkempt beard. I open my library for the photo I just took, find that I am too far away from him, it is too dark, to get a picture worth keeping. Your leg blurs the lower half, but the blur is not your fault. I need to get into a better position, take a clearer photo, but I am stuck in this crevice. 

Photographs are all I have for now, so as he paces the wet asphalt, I scan through them, digging for evidence. I have never understood the human desire to keep reminders of things that no longer exist. I scroll, swipe, slide through memories, the ones you thought you would hang in wooden frames. Your life has been captured by my aperture - there must be something here. I should start from the beginning.

The first photo I have is of your orange tabby cat, three years and five days ago. With me, you took a photograph; she was only a kitten, left abandoned behind a grocery store. “New addition to the family!” you shared with your friends online. 

You spent days using me to research names, finally settling on Marmalade because it was the closest color to her coat you could find. There is an entire photo album dedicated to this housecat, most of the photos the same, but still you kept them all.

When Marmalade became sick, you stayed by her side for three nights, researching. You joined cat groups on social media, made repeated calls to local veterinarians, and kept me close by in case you needed me. 

“Signs your cat is dying”

“Cat breaths shallow”

“Please help me”

Then, you searched, over and over, to see if your grief was “normal,” only to find every time that there is no “normal.” I am here now, and while I cannot understand grief, I will do my best to help you. 

Daniel is coming back to the car. I click back to my photos, scrolling, faster now, there; a video, the two of you, dancing in the crowded living room. You set me down, start my camera recording, shove a tan ottoman out of your path. From the laptop, you start an instrumental song. A soft piano tune plays and his hand embraces the lower area of your back. You raise your arm and place it on his shoulder and the two of you dance slowly. I track the melody and discover its title.  This will work. 

I browse my music library for the piece - Moonlight Sonata. Fortunately, you have the song in your favorites. I raise my volume, play the song, and wait. His heavy boots clap against the wet concrete. He paces, back and forth, back and forth, then stops. His steps become calculated, now walking towards the car. When he approaches the driver’s side door, he stares into your lifeless eyes. I wait until he gets closer.

“No!” he screams.

“Lucy,” he says, “I’m so sorry.”

Now.

I open my multitasking, switch back to the camera, and the song clicks off. I snap a photo, this time with the flash on. Daniel notices. In a split second, he grabs me by my metallic frame, screams something unintelligible at my face, and his grip tightens. He slams me into the concrete then crushes me with his boot. My glass face spiderwebs. He picks me up off the wet ground then pitches me back inside the car. With a chipped frame and dying battery, I slide beneath the driver’s seat, face down. 

The police will find your car crashed into a ditch, far enough from your house to avoid suspicion. Daniel will tell them how careless you must have been. Your twin brother, Lucas, will receive the worst phone call he’s ever received, but he won’t believe them, because he knew you always kept me turned off while driving. He will push and shove and call and confront both Daniel and the officers who just want this all to be over with. 

Lucas will find me, broken screen, tucked beneath the driver’s seat. At first, I’ll be dead. Then, he’ll charge me up - he knows your passcode, will use it to unlock me, unlock the secrets. At first, he will think the photo I took is just a blur. Then, he will sync me to his computer because he cannot see past my broken screen, and then he will see Daniel’s bloody hands covering his mouth. Then, he will find the video I recorded, watch Daniel attempt to destroy me, then he will watch as Daniel reaches across the driver’s seat, sets the stone onto the gas pedal, and puts the car in drive. 

That is another day. For tonight, I scroll through your music library and through crackling speakers, play your favorite playlist, and learn the meaning of grief.